Virgin Romance by Penny Wylder
8
I wake up groggy, confused. These sheets feel way too nice, this bed too lump-free beneath me. Where am I?
It all comes back in a rush. The helicopter flight, the show, the hotel, the penthouse . . . The pleasantly sore throb in my ass. I shift a little, and that’s when I notice the other pressure—the heavy weight of an arm around my waist.
Slowly, moving carefully so as not to disturb him, I glance over my shoulder.
Pierce has curled up beside me, hugging me tight against his body. His chest presses against my upper back, and his knees are curled behind mine, following the curve of my body exactly. We fit together so perfectly . . . And with his arm draped around my waist, hugging me against him, it almost feels like a natural position to wake up in. I’m just another girl, waking up beside her new boyfriend who can’t stop cuddling her in his sleep.
I smile, though part of me feels nervous about what this means, and turn back around to doze off. But the motion must wake him up, because a moment later, his arm slides off my waist, and I hear his breath catch beside me.
I glance over my shoulder again. “Pierce?”
His icy blue eyes find mine in the dim, pre-dawn glow from the windows. Before I can say anything, or ask what he’s thinking, he pushes off of the bed, leaping away from me as though he’s been scalded.
I listen to him pad across the penthouse. In the distance, the bathroom door opens and closes again. I lay back on my pillow and shut my eyes, but sleep is farther away than ever now.
I listen to the shower run for almost twenty minutes straight. Then the flush of the toilet, and the rush of the sink, and the soft swish of an electric toothbrush, or maybe a razor.
All the while, I stare at the inside of my eyelids, unable to drift back off. Why was he hugging me?
More importantly, why did he run?
I hear the bathroom door open and shut again, and footsteps pad back across the room. I wait for his weight to sink into the bed once more, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the footsteps cross to the other side of the room, approach my side of the bed. I feel more than hear him bend over, sensing his eyes on mine. Is he checking to see if I’m awake?
It feels safer to pretend I’m not than to risk starting some kind of serious conversation at this hour of the godforsaken morning. I keep my eyes firmly shut, and eventually his footsteps move away again.
Sometime later, though I can’t be sure how much, a phone vibrates. I tense, thinking it’s mine, but Pierce answers a moment later, his voice low and hushed. I crack one eyelid to watch his naked body as he stands and crosses to the farthest window. Despite his attempts to keep his voice low, it’s nearly dead quiet in the apartment, and his tone carries.
“For how long? And why wasn’t anyone keeping an eye on the market prices?”
I watch shamelessly as he stretches his leg out to one side, which puts his bare ass on prime display. Damn, boy is ripped.
“I see. And Kelly can’t clean this one up?” He turns to the side, in profile, and the light from a building across the way catches his bare chest and abs, illuminates his cock, large even now while it’s limp and presumably a little bit cold from the air in here.
“You’re sure.” He sighs, running a free hand through his hair. “Yes, of course I can. I don’t know, a couple of hours.” There’s a long pause, and then his fist clenches in his hair, and his face tightens. “Well, it’s what you’re going to get, so take it where you can.” He groans as he disconnects the phone and turns back toward me.
He moves too fast for me to shut my eyes again, not while I was busy drinking in every line of his hard muscles. I catch his eye and blink in surprise, then smile a little, forced. “Something wrong?” I ask, deciding it’s best not to pretend I didn’t overhear that conversation.
“Get changed,” he tells me, his voice deadpan. “You need to go.”
It takes a couple of seconds for that statement to sink in. Then it takes me a couple of seconds to reign in my temper. Seriously. After all of this, the hotel, Vegas, last night, he’s not only going to not fuck me, again, but he’s throwing me out on top of it?
“You aren’t going to finish this, are you?” I shove back the sheets and sit up in bed.
He must be nervous, because his eyes don’t even dart down to check out my body, even though I know full well that he can see my tits through this sheer nightgown.
“Why did you bring me here, Pierce? What is all this for?” I spread my arms wide at the penthouse. “You said my first time should be special. Then you go all out on spoiling me—not to mention with the freaking . . .” I wave my bracelets at him, because last night after fucking, I couldn’t figure out how to work the clasps, I was so tired, so I just slept in them. “The insane presents, and the helicopter flights, and you’ll fuck my ass but not me, and why? What’s the point? Are you ever planning to pay me at all, or is this all some game to you?”
“I told you, Bonnie, I will pay you when I get what I bought. You have assurances now, surely.” He points to the bracelets with a sarcastic expression. “You know I’m not lying about my wealth.”
“Oh, so you just brought me here to prove you’re rich. Not even because you want to have me here.”
“You’re being ridiculous!”
“You’re throwing me out of your fancy penthouse hotel room at . . .” I flail toward the windows, through which the horizon has only begun to turn a faint pink in the distance, the first indicator of dawn. “Freaking five o’clock in the morning or whatever ungodly time it is, and I’m the one being ridiculous?”
“I am not throwing you out, Bonnie. I have work to do. I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up out front in an hour.”
“Oh sure, that’s completely different from throwing me out.” I roll my eyes, but only to keep them from stinging. Fuck. Why am I letting him get to me like this?
Because I thought he was starting to care. Because waking up wrapped in his arms last night felt too good to be true. Because all of this does, like a fairy tale that couldn’t possibly be real—and now I’m learning that I was right. It is too good to be real.
None of this is real at all. And I’m just another disposable whore he purchased to use however he wanted.
I push myself off the bed and grab the stupid white dress from the floor, along with my lingerie. Fuck him. And fuck these clothes he thinks I like, and fuck this whole stupid joke.
I storm into the bathroom and slam the door shut. But instead of getting dressed, I just grab the bathrobe from the closet and wrap myself in that instead. It’s warmer than the stupid dress, and a hell of a lot comfier anyway. I shove on slippers, too, and pad back into the penthouse, leaving the other clothes puddled on the floor in there.
“Bonnie,” he says the moment I emerge, but I storm right past him to push the elevator call button.
Damn. It’s a lot harder to storm out of a place when you have to wait for an elevator.
“It’s business, Bonnie. I need to work.”
“Whatever.” I toss my head, hard. “I’m tired of you playing with me.”
He laughs, too loudly for my taste. I turn around to glare at him, but he just smirks. “Clearly you love me playing with you.”
I roll my eyes and jam the elevator button harder. “You’re just stalling.”
He crosses the room to my side and takes my hand, pulling it away from the button. “Bonnie.” He waits until I meet his gaze again, my jaw set in defiance. “I don’t have time right now. I told you, I need to work. I’ll fuck you when I’m ready, and not a moment before then. That was our deal.” His gaze bores into mine, and I hate how much sense he makes when all I want to do right now is fume at him.
“Our deal was that you fuck me, take my virginity, and pay me. That was the deal, Pierce. None of . . . this.” I wave my arm at the room again.
“Our deal is finished when I claim every virginity you have. That’s what we agreed.” His hand drops between us to cup my pussy, and I tense in response to his touch. That only makes him laugh again, because he can clearly read the desire on my face. Damn him. “You will just have to accept it, Bonnie.”
The elevator door dings open behind me, and I pull myself out of his arms and storm into the elevator. “You have no idea how much you’re fucking up my life right now,” I inform him, just as the doors close again in his face.
It’s not really fair to throw that at him, I know. He doesn’t know because I won’t let him. But he can’t just go around assuming he knows what’s best for everyone, and what everyone needs. Especially when he has no idea what’s going on with me, or why I need this money right now.
I clench my fists at my sides. I don’t have time to wait around for him to feel like fucking me. I need cash, now. My grandmother needs cash, now.
I hit the bottom floor, and the doors open to reveal more than a few strangers and hotel guests eyeballing me, standing there in a bathrobe and slippers. Damn. And the car—or whatever my “ride home” means—won’t arrive for another hour, Pierce said.
Then I notice the sign by the entrance. Continental breakfast served daily, 5AM-8AM.
Perfect. If nothing else, at least I can make Pierce pay for my damn breakfast. It’s the least he can do at this point. I storm up the steps to the second floor landing, where there’s a buffet laid out with about ten different kinds of hot meals awaiting.
“May I have your room number?” the hostess greets me, and I turn to smile at her, about to speak, when her gaze lands on my robe. “Oh, please, right this way, miss.”
Before I can tell her the number—which I’m not even sure I know, is there more than one penthouse? —she’s leading me through the maze of chairs and seating me in a private booth in the corner. She snaps her fingers at a passing waiter, who immediately about-faces and rushes into the kitchen.
I’ve never seen anyone treat guests like this. Not even in fine dining, and I’ve covered a few hostess shifts at some really nice places in the city.
The waiter returns in a heartbeat with coffee and tea, both of which he places before me. “Would you like any other beverages?” he simpers. “A mimosa, perhaps, or a bellini, that is a favorite of Mr. Pinewood’s, I believe.”
Startled at the name, I glance down at my robe. Sure enough, there’s a double initial crest embroidered on the pocket. P.P., just like the way Pierce signed that note to me when he sent the dress and jewelry. Pinewood?
But then I think about his screenname. PiercingPine32. Well, that would be even less subtle than I already thought, but hey, it fits him.
The waiter is waiting there, hovering, anxious, clearly wanting to fulfill my every desire. I’m pretty sure if I asked him to go down on me right now, he would. I almost laugh out loud, to think it. Pierce is turning me into a dirty girl after all. But there is one thing this waiter can tell me that I want to know.
I lean forward against the table and wrap my hands around the warm coffee mug he brought me. “Why are you being so helpful?” I ask. “I mean, do you do this for all of your customers, or . . .”
His face flushes, but he bobs his head again, clearly torn between embarrassment and wanting to give me the right answer, whatever that may be. “We aim to make all of our guests as comfortable as possible here at the Woodland Marquis . . .” he says, shifting on his feet. The hotel chain is fairly well-known, so I figure they must have some kind of rewards club or something for big spenders. Maybe that’s why. Then he adds, “But of course, any guest of Mr. Pinewood is a special guest of ours, Miss. After all, we are all here at his behest.”
My eyebrows inch higher on my forehead, even though I try to keep my expression as neutral as possible. “And why is that?” I ask, hoping I won’t give too much away, or sound like an imposter. After all, Mr. Pinewood’s “special guest” should probably know why she’s so special already. But hey, if he throws me out now, I’m only out one buffet breakfast.
The waiter does look a little confused, but he answers me nonetheless. “Well, since Mr. Pinewood is responsible for running the Woodland Marquis Company, of course.”
My stomach twists into a tight knot. “He’s the owner?” I blurt, before I can help it. “Of this hotel.”
The waiter’s eyebrows rise almost as high as my own. “No, Miss,” he says, and I start to relax in my seat again, until . . . “He owns the entire chain.”
Holy shit.
I knew he was wealthy, of course. No broke guy would throw around diamonds the way he has, not to mention limos and helicopter rides. But the owner of the Woodland Marquis, one of the largest luxury hotel chains in the whole country? I’m gaping at this poor waiter in shock, and bless the guy for not throwing me out of this restaurant on my ass, or assuming I’m some kind of imposter. “I . . . Sorry, of course. I . . .” I stare around wildly for a distraction, and take a hurried gulp of my coffee. It scalds the roof of my mouth, but I ignore it. “Could I get a refill?” I ask, batting my eyes.
The waiter just looks relieved for an excuse to move away from my table. He bows again and hurries toward the service entrance, leaving me alone to contemplate this new development.
The more I think about it, though, the more it explains. The penthouse suite must be his family’s, or maybe just his? I pull my phone out of my tiny clutch purse, too small to hold anything but the phone itself and my house keys. Time to break my google block on this guy.
Pierce Pinewood brings up a stunning number of results. To judge by the image section, they’re all definitely him—I waste a little bit of time staring at his chiseled jaw, his perfect body in a couple of candid swimsuit shots by paparazzi, and way too many icy blue stares from the covers of huge magazines—mags even I recognize. Hell, Time listed him as one of their 30 Under 30 to watch a couple of years ago—though judging by his age and the article’s date, he’s just over 30 now. 32 to be exact.
That screenname just keeps getting more and more obvious, I think with a faint smirk.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted people on that site to know who he was. Why? I shake my head. The reveal of Pierce’s real position in the world certainly explains why he has limos and helicopters and penthouse suites in hotels at his beck and call wherever he goes, but if anything, it confuses me even more as to why he was on the Sugar Babies website to begin with. And especially why he picked me, out of all the thousands upon thousands of girls available there.
I shake my head. Pierce is the kind of guy who would never need to buy a woman in his life. They must throw themselves at him, hoping for a long-term time-share in his luxurious lifestyle, rather than any kind of cold hard cash repayment. I toy with the bracelets on my wrists, then reach up to trace the outline of the diamond choker.
Why spoil me, if he wanted to just buy me? I would have let him fuck me that first night and been done with it, but he preferred to drag it out, turn this business arrangement into something that’s starting to feel, to me, like a real romance. Why?
Is this all some twisted game of his? Do rich and powerful men get so bored with being rich and powerful that they get off on buying girls’ virginities? Is this just another power play for him?
He’s certainly good at those, I learn from the first couple of newspaper articles I browse about him. He’s notorious for being a shark in the boardroom. He inherited Woodland Marquis when his father died, and he was only 23 years old—that sends a familiar twinge straight to my heartstrings. But back then Woodland Marquis was a single hotel in Los Angeles, not very well known, and certainly not a name associated with wealth and luxury. In the 9 years since he inherited that hotel, Pierce built an empire.
He poured a ton of money into renovating the place, almost every penny he inherited from his father, except for the money he set aside to run a brilliant new marketing campaign. The hotel took off, and before long, he was rolling in profits. But he wasn’t happy stopping there—he bought another hotel in San Francisco, then another one here in Vegas, and soon enough New York, Chicago, Houston. He has hotels dotting almost every major city across the U.S. now, and a spinoff chain in Europe. All because, according to this article, he refused to stop running full-speed.
Most people, the author wrote, would have stopped at that first hotel. He earned a nice profit margin; they would have been content with that, and settled in to enjoy the proceeds. But not the younger Pinewood. He spent every cent of those proceeds replicating the first hotel. Then he did it again, and again. His business has almost never been fully in the black, because he’s always reinvesting, buying up on his earlier successes. It’s a risky way to play, in business and in life, but so far for Pierce Pinewood, this style of work has paid off in spades . . .
I’m still reading when my poor harassed waiter friend returns with a fresh mug of coffee. He drops it off and asks if I would like some food brought to me, but I wave him away. I’m no Pierce. The buffet is fine by me.
I load up a plate with toast and eggs and bacon, then devour that along with more articles about Pierce. The more I read, the more I feel I’m starting to understand him. That drive in his eyes, the way he always gets what he wants. The way he kicked me out of bed at 5 in the damn morning because he had a work call—something that sounded like an emergency, to be fair.
Rich as god or not, this man is a classic workaholic.
Of course, that’s probably how he got so rich. But it can’t be good for his personal life. I doubt he has time for anything, even friends, with how often he must need to be on-call.
I shake my head and finish up my meal. Right then, the waiter returns to tap my shoulder gently. “They’re paging you at the front desk, I think. Bonnie?”
I nod and pocket my phone, wiping my mouth delicately as I stand. “The car is here?”
He nods.
Thank god it’s just a car and not another helicopter. Much as I love flying, I’m not up for another adventure at this hour, in this getup. I just want to be back home in my cozy, cramped apartment bed, where I can think about this situation I’ve gotten myself into.
More than ever, I know I need to finish this “business deal” soon. Because I’m starting to feel something more than I ought to for a customer, so to say. And if I’m catching feelings, I can tell from those news reports that it will only lead to heartbreak.
I stride out of the hotel, still wearing his bathrobe. Hell if I’m going back up there to beg him for my clothes back. I walk straight out of Pierce’s world, and back into the car that will return me to mine.
